


The Shape of Seconds

by jedishampoo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:51:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedishampoo/pseuds/jedishampoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morning nookie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shape of Seconds

**Title: The Shape of Seconds**  
 **Author:** jedishampoo  
 **Pairing:** England/America  
 **Rating:** R-l8 (smutsmut)  
 **Summary:** Morning nookie.  
 **Notes:** Originally written for the Hetalia kink meme, the prompt “Morning nookie.” [Here’s the Kink Meme link](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/17465.html?thread=55977785#t55977785). Finally, I get to write morning lovin'. Thanks to the OP for the request! And thank you to my betas, [**whymzycal**](http://whymzycal.livejournal.com/) and [**sharpeslass**](http://sharpeslass.livejournal.com/) , who helped me sharpen this up before I de-anoned!

 **The Shape of Seconds**

There were riots in Mumbai. So tiresome, curse their souls; Russia had raised the price of sake and it had been blamed on the British-held Raj, and the reports were coming over BBC News dot com about how the stegosaurus population in the outskirts of Hong Kong was becoming extinct in the face of rising oil prices. If only Benjamin Franklin hadn’t started it all with his book tour denouncing the Birmingham whaling trade — England would have a word with America about that, as soon as he’d had his tea and could convince his secretary to turn off Doctor Who. America—

 _Snore._

England opened his eyes. America was there next to him, not a foot away, his eyes closed and mouth open. That was convenient; England would be able to tell him in person that his people were pushy twats. Except the more England thought about it, the more he woke up, and while indeed America’s people may have been pushy twats, Ben Franklin had been dead these two hundred years. India and Hong Kong were Commonwealth, no longer colonies. The stegosaurs England could not explain; those sorts of things just appeared in his dreams now and then.

America was no longer a colony, either, but he was there, his breath audible, though not too loud, as it puffed from between his parted lips. His hand was warm where it lay across England’s ribcage. England breathed and let his dream-induced stress ebb away, felt his heart slow by microseconds between each beat: _thump-thump-thump he didn’t even like sake all that well, thump, thump, thump, America had arrived late last night, at last._

As consciousness took hold, England’s imperialistic dream faded. Still, a few of his brain cells clung to the memory of the feeling —the feeling of stepping across continents at will, of awareness, of … control.

Booze prices and Doctor Who were matters of more concern to the British, anymore, than events in faraway places. How complacent he and his people had become. They accepted the way the world looked, instead of changing the face of the world to suit themselves.

Suddenly England no longer wanted to remember the feeling. So he remembered that it was Sunday, and that they had more pointless meetings tomorrow — ostensibly, the reason for America’s visit. Monday was also bin day. _So much to do_. England raised his head a little, trying to see the alarm clock that sat on the table inconveniently situated just on America’s other side. By straining the tiniest bit, he discovered that it was already past nine.

America’s hand shifted, a gentle stutter of warm movement that seemed to count England’s ribs, _one-two-three-four,_ and England’s heart-rate sped up once more.

“Wachoodoon?” America mumbled, his eyes still shut.

“Sleeping the morning away, it seems,” England said. He thought about removing America’s hand from his chest. He thought about it but didn’t do it.

America yawned and opened one unfocused blue eye. “I’m still jetlagged. Geeze, now I’m here, you have an excuse to sleep in.”

“Sleep? Bah. You twitch all night,” England lied.

“Do not,” America said, and closed his eyes again. Somehow he dared to look innocent and unworried and … and comfortable.

England knew his failing was not a new one. Years it was he’d spent in complacent denial, gathering markets and raw earth and pretending he didn’t care a whit about anyone, least of all America. All had been so easily lost in a haze of answered secret wishes.

England studied America’s smooth, broad face, unhidden by his spectacles. He was more winter-pale than the last time England had seen him, at All Hallow’s Eve. The sun filtering through the sheers picked out golds and browns in his hair, which was disheveled and sticky-looking. England let his brain cells drag out the memory of how it had gotten that way.

Waking with America was nothing new. America often stayed with him and was often frightened in England’s house. Even the emotions he associated with waking up next to America were familiar, almost old hat.

What was rather new was the intimacy. That was glorious and terrifying and absolutely exhilarating, proving that anything could happen, and had. He could still change the faces of the world. Sometimes it took decades, and sometimes it took mere moments.

“Come, now,” he said, plucking America’s hand from his chest and shaking it. “Wakey, wakey!”

“Don’t wanna,” America mumbled. He tried to pull the duvet over his head. “Jetlag.”

England sat up and rolled to his knees. He yanked at America’s half of the duvet. “Lazy clot.”

America glared at him. “Why dontcha go make breakfast or something? I’ll sleep while you do—” Suddenly America’s glare shifted to something resembling wide-eyed dismay. “No, oh, God, wait — _don’t_ make breakfast. Just give me a few more—”

“Idiot,” England said, and boxed America’s ear, then kissed it. Then he kissed him on the mouth — in full daylight, he had done that he, complacent, repressed, selfish.

After a small, indignant-sounding _mmph,_ America kissed England back, opening his lips and straight teeth wide, invitingly and with surprising gentleness. His breath tasted like hours-old sex.

England licked the roof of America’s mouth, his teeth, and his full lower lip, pushing deeper until they were taking desperate, gulping breaths of each other, twisting their fingers into each other’s hair and holding on like it was only natural and necessary. Such erotic intimacy was nearly too much to bear for too long; after countless short minutes, England pushed himself away.

“Well, good _morning_ ,” America said up at him with a bit of a maniacally smug grin. His pale cheeks had been washed with a pink shine.

England was more than warm, himself. His cock ached, his entire body ached to fuse itself to America’s flesh, so close and warm and alive. He toyed with the saucy lock of America’s hair that refused to lay straight.

“I have many things to do,” he said, inexplicable even to himself.

 _Was that an eye-roll?_ “Old habits die hard, huh?” America said.

“What, pray, is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, haha. Well, I have lots of things to do too, of course.” America was staring up and away, past England’s head.

“Do you, now?” England narrowed his eyes; America seemed to be insinuating that he was behaving poorly, somehow.

“Yeah. Like I gotta take a whiz.” America started to reach for his spectacles on the bedside table, next to the alarm clock, but England stopped him by grabbing his wrist. He’d been given the power to make moments, after all.

“I shan’t take long then, sprout,” he said, and reached instead for the jar of lubricant that was also on the table.

America’s eyes sparked when he saw what England was doing. “Well, I am pretty awesome.”

“Hush, now,” England told him, and dug his fingers into the jar. And amazingly, America hushed while England tore down the duvet-fort and clambered between America’s fair, lightly haired thighs. America briefly objected to having his parts tossed about like a marionette’s, and situated his own knees atop England’s shoulders, _thankyouverymuch,_ wriggling his back on the sheets until he was satisfied with his own comfort.

“Ow, cold, geeze,” he also complained when England shoved his gelled fingers into the crack of his arse.

“Hold on,” England warned, as he yanked America’s ass up his own kneeling thighs. He wasn’t even going to give him a stretch; he was young, so young and England wanted him, always had wanted him, and he could take it—

England could hear the thud of his own heart in his eardrums, _thump, thump,_ then _thump-thump-thump-thump_ as America put his arms around England’s neck and dug his fingers into his shoulders and England slid, squeezed his cock into America, pale and open in the fullness of the morning. He huffed as he angled himself in hard and his cock was hugged by heat that spread through his body until his fingernails ached with wanting more.

“Ah- _anhh,”_ America moaned. From his loftier position England could see all of America from his slack mouth to erect cock twitching over his smooth, soft stomach, worked tight with strain. “Oh, God. I’m all full in there. Must be my bladder, ha-ah!”

“You think?” England could only manage to whisper as braced his hands next to America’s head on the pillow and worked his aching cock out, and then in again. “What do you feel?”

“Yuh,” America said, and that was all. _Thump, thump,_ the morning was deafening enough and England’s body begged for motion. He obliged, greedy for all his moments at once, the leverage of his knees sufficient to fuck America blind, if he could. America was solid, real, living.

“You are — truly here,” England breathed.

“Ah,” America said as his head _thump, thump_ ed into the ancient oak headboard of England’s bed.

 _Thump, thump_ — England wanted to kiss America’s sweat-shiny and open face, to swallow every moan England gave him, but he couldn’t bend that far and fuck him at the same time. So for long minutes he found the perfect rhythm for them both, to match their breaths, the way their bodies worked with each other, natural and inevitable.

“I still — ah — can’t believe that you — it’s you — _God_ ,” America said, halting in the huff of his own breaths.

England _hmm_ ed and cradled America’s cheek to show he understood. Affection warred with lust, however, and after a few moments he hooked his thumb into America’s mouth. America swirled his tongue around it, America, _his,_ and England’s gut wrenched into that perfect, yearning ache that lasted just long enough — a few seconds more — then he climaxed, losing his rhythm in the jerking spasms of orgasm.

He thrust until the last minute, until he had wrenched his cock into exhaustion and was forced to slide out of the warmth of America’s body. But freed from the demands of coitus, he could side forward to kiss America again, get at last.

“Dear boy,” he whispered into America’s mouth as he clenched America’s cock and stroked it, hard, slick, and sweaty, until America climaxed messily over both of them. His fingers clenched tight to England’s nape and he dragged or England fell down until he was breathing America’s hair, pressed into the pillow.

It was always in the few quiet minutes afterwards that they knew each other best: how their fate was forever intertwined, how England had shaped him, how they changed each other. When they weren’t speaking with words, they couldn’t misunderstand them, and when they were this close in physical form, they could pretend nearly nothing.

As usual, however, those moments were few and never lasted. England realized that his heart had quieted, and he could hear music filtering through the window-panes and the sheers to vibrate in the still, thick air of his bedroom. It was the sound of flutes and cymbals, a sound that always made him think of tea.

“That music is cool. It sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it. I think it was from a movie,” America said into England’s ear. England raised himself onto his elbows and looked down: America’s sex-lovely expression had regained some of its usual and regrettable sly smugness.

“It’s Indian,” England sniffed. He shook off the duvet. It was hot and close, and he definitely wanted tea. And perhaps curry. America’s belly rumbled.

“Dot, not feather,” America said. He stretched and winced when his knuckles knocked and scraped against the engravings on the headboard. “I never figured out why you guys called the people on my continent _Indians_. I mean, seriously.”

England didn’t rise to the bait, instead feeling a familiar regret at some of the traditions he’d passed down. At how they’d both shaped their worlds. He didn’t say anything.

America seemed to read some of his thoughts. He grinned and nodded towards the window. “That’s an awesome beat. Though I have some really great Native American tribal music, by the way, if you ever wanna borrow it. They’re an awesome people to have. They love the land and it loves them back.”

“All people are good to have,” England said. It was true. The world as a whole only just seemed to be realizing it, but if the old and stodgy and complacent could learn such things, then there was hope for them all.

“Yeah,” America said. He rolled off the bed and stood, exposing every inch of his pale, sticky skin. He stretched again and plopped his spectacles onto his nose. Then his incorrigible stomach rumbled once more. “I still have to whiz.”

“I have many things to do as well,” England said, with what he personally thought was an astounding lack of irony.

America shrugged and ambled out of the room, into the hallway. “Good thing we have all day, then, right?”

That was also true. An entire day of moments. England smiled and leaned back against the headboard of his bed, and tried to decide if he should follow America, or wait for him to come back.

  
 **END.** _Thanks for reading! Comments, concrit appreciated very much. :)_


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